


Acts of Contrition

by Paradox23



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Confessional Sex, Confessions, F/M, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradox23/pseuds/Paradox23
Summary: Khadgar thinks unloading his fantasies about the High Priestess will help him focus on saving the world.





	Acts of Contrition

**Author's Note:**

> from the kink meme:  
>  _Assuming Azeroth doesn't employ therapists, Khadgar thinks unloading his fantasies about the High Priestess will help him focus on saving the world. And because this is kinkmeme (and I LOVE a good confessional booth fic!), obviously the High Priestess is on the other side listening to him, and getting VERY turned on._

The Church of the Light hadn't seen the point of it at first. After all, they asked, how many would want to unburden themselves to a wooden screen and a disembodied voice? To forgo the body language that showed a pained soul that the listener understood, that they weren't judging? How could anyone be comforted without a sympathetic expression, without a gentle touch?  
  
To their surprise, the answer was "Many."   
  
The Church of the Light were caring, conscientious shepherds, however, and so they adapted. Careful measures were taken to preserve the anonymity of those who needed to unburden themselves; at the same time, to allow them the comfort of talking to a priest of their choice—even if the identity was never acknowledged—a schedule was posted and strictly adhered to.   
  
It was an excellent system, but like all systems sometimes the unexpected happened.  
  
Thus it was that on a rainy evening in autumn, a certain young priestess was asked to take over the confessional when one of the older male priests was suddenly taken ill. Worried that those seeking absolution would be distressed by the change, she asked for an elixir to disguise her voice; one was hurriedly procured, and soon she was running through the rain-battered streets, wrapped in a hooded great-cloak. She slipped through the side door and through the shadows of the church, past the ranks of dimly-flickering candles and the filigree thuribles, fragrant with still-smoldering incense. A line of hooded figures, in the shadowy church barely visible as thicker shadows, waited to enter the penitent's side of the confessional.  
  
She slipped into the confessor's side, hanging her wet cloak on a hook and spreading her robe—soaking wet from the knees down—wide on the bench to dry. A moment later the penitent's door creaked open, and the evening began.  
  
For the first hour or so, most of the confessions were the type of thing she had heard so many times before, petty crimes and minor unkindnesses. A few were heartbreaking: the guilty whispers of those who had found that, instead of being horrified when they were required to kill living beings in the name of the Light, they were indifferent… or even enjoyed it. As always, she wished she could do more for them than nod behind the wooden screen—though of course they could not see even that in the dark!—or give them minor acts of contrition to perform. "Return the stolen goods," she told them in her elixir-bestowed baritone. "Be kinder next time," she said, and, "Attend to your conscience, even as you serve a higher good."  
  
The intervals between penitents became longer and longer, After hearing the anguished confession of a soldier obsessed with the thought of cheating on his husband— "I never would, but I just can't stop thinking about it!" she had almost resolved to go when the door opened again.  
  
The person who entered was silhouetted for a moment by the candlelight in the church; their uncovered head offering a brief glimpse of close-cropped silver hair.   
  
The High Priestess opened her mouth in astonishment. Could it be?  
  
The penitent sat, exhaled with a sigh, and then said, "I am… possessed."  
  
It was, she realized with amazement. It was Khadgar. Her heartbeat began to thud in her throat.  
  
"Not truly possessed, of course," Khadgar went on, "but possessed nevertheless. By a demon of my own making."  
  
This was utterly unexpected. "What type of demon?" she asked, even more grateful now for the voice-disguising elixir she had taken.  
  
"Lust."   
  
This simple word left her speechless, and yes, slightly breathless.   
  
"I tried suppressing it at first," he continued. "Foolish of me; as is so often the case, attempting to silence it only made it stronger." He paused. "I have decided that I should fight it as I would any other demon. Just as naming a demon can rob it of its power, so I feel that giving voice to these… thoughts and fantasies may rob them of their power."  
  
"Many have such thoughts and fantasies," she said. "They need not be… vanquished."   
  
"That may be true for some," Khadgar said. "Not for me. A dangerous distraction, when my mind is filled with these images, and my body wracked with such urges."  
  
"Then by all means give your thoughts voice," she said, "If you feel it will help you."

"It was simple admiration at first," he said. "She was so strong, so inspiring on Draenor when we fought the Iron Horde."  
  
"She?"   
  
"The High Priestess." Khadgar sighed. "But then there came a moment, during the early days of the Tanaan excursion… " She heard a soft rasp, as if he were rubbing beard-stubble. "Bear with me, father; my story may be long, as I am finding it difficult to come at it head-on."  
  
"I am here as long as you have need for a listener," she said.  
  
"We were pressing the Iron Horde hard," Khadgar said, "disrupting their operations on our way to the harbor. When we saw the Worldbreaker we decided to use it to destroy the Dark Portal, but in order to do that we needed a diversion."  
  
The High Priestess almost said, "I remember!" but stopped herself.  
  
"We put enough cracks in their dam that it broke and flooded the low-lying areas. Most got to high ground, but plenty got drenched."  
  
She remembered that too; her clammy clothes plastered to her body, making her shiver despite the jungle's humid heat.  
  
"And that was the moment," Khadgar said, "'when it hit me that she was a woman." He chuckled. "Not that I didn't know it before then, but it was a secondary detail. Like the color of someone's eyes, or their height. That day, for the first time, I… " He stopped.  
  
"You were attracted to her."  
  
"Yes." He was whispering now. "It was like being hit with a firebolt. I wanted to unbutton her robe and touch her. Caress and… kiss her… breasts."  
  
Her face burning, she could feel her nipples hardening under her robe at that single word, imagining his hands, his mouth.   
  
"That was the beginning," he said. "After that, every time I saw her my mind was filled with more and more… thoughts. Images." He paused again, and made a soft panting sound.   
  
She held her breath and listened intently—and yes, just barely, she could hear what sounded like the small movements. The faintest rustling of cloth. Was he becoming so aroused from talking about it that he had stealthily taken himself in hand? Was he even now stroking himself to climax, here in the confessional?  
  
"There was," he said, without prompting, "the day she visited the shipyard. I could barely concentrate on strategy when she asked me if I would tour the new ship with her. She showed me the Captain's cabin, with its roomy bed, and asked what sort of celebration we should have for the ship's maiden voyage. She said that some cultures poured a bottle of wine over the ship's prow."  
  
The priestess recalled that day, how uncomfortable Khadgar had seemed. She had wondered at the time if he was one of those averse to small, closed spaces, and so had hurried back above deck.  
  
"As she was talking," Khadgar said, sounding distinctly breathless now, "to my shame all I could think of was how sweet it would be to bury my face between her legs and pleasure her until she writhed. I wanted my face to be coated with her juices."  
  
The priestess squeezed her thighs together as a tingle of arousal sparkled up from her sex. "You did not reveal any of these feelings to her?"  
  
"Of course not," he said. "I am not the type to initiate."  
  
"With maidens?"  
  
"With anyone."  
  
She wondered then if the young apprentice, prematurely aged, had been a virgin. "Tell me—if she approached you and expressed an unconstrained interest, would you go to her bed? Whether she was maiden or not?"  
  
"Gladly," he said, so fervently that a warm rush of corresponding desire uncoiled in her belly.  
  
"Is that scenario one of the demons you wish to exorcise?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Then begin."   
  
"It does not have a set beginning, time or place," he said. "Only that she first takes me by the hand, and looks at me with understanding and acceptance. I take her in my arms and kiss her. Chastely at first, but then she presses against me, neither repulsed nor gloating of the effect she is having on me, and we become, ah, more fierce."  
  
The priestess smiled.   
  
"Then she unbuttons the top button of my robe. I respond in kind, and we alternate. Beneath her robe she is naked, as am I. We move to the bed. She rolls me onto my back, then kneels astride my head so that I can pleasure her as she bends down to pleasure me."

The priestess hopes that he will go into detail. He does.  
  
"First I stroke her with my fingers, coaxing until her outer lips part." His voice has become rougher, and she shifts on the bench, as if the words themselves had brushed against her. The throbbing between her legs is becoming more insistent with each word, and she rolls her hips and grinds down against the wood beneath her robe. "Inside, she is wet and lush," Khadgar is saying. "I trace each fold, each ridge, with my fingertip."  
  
The priestess can bear it no longer. As silently as possible she pulls the front of her robe up into her lap, stands just enough to push her undergarment down and off, then sits down half-sideways, propping one foot on the bench so that her fingers can act out what Khadgar is saying.  
  
"I rub the hood over the hidden nub," he says with a gasp—and if there had been any doubt earlier that he was stroking himself, the small slick sounds now coming from his side of the confessional leave no doubt that he is doing so now. "I urge her to sit lower, planning to have my tongue repeat what fingers have just done, and more, but her hands and mouth on me are bringing me closer and closer to climax. When she puts her finger inside me and traces the tip of her tongue over my balls it is too much."  
  
"And then what?" the priestess asks, catching her lower lip between her teeth to keep from moaning. Between her own ministrations and the images in her head she too is very close to the edge.   
  
"She turns and impales herself on me," he groans. "I can… only manage… a few seconds before I am undone." Khadgar pants heavily for several seconds, and then sighs—but with contentment this time.   
  
It takes a minute or two before the priestess—her own climax exploding out from her slippery fingers—can ask, "Did speaking of it help?"  
  
Khadgar chuckles softly. "Yes, I think it did at that. I feel much… relieved." He does not make any attempt to muffle the sounds as he puts himself back into his clothing—which is good, for it enables the priestess to find and don her undergarment as well.  
  
She hears him open the door. "A moment," she says. "The tradition of the confessional requires that I assign you a task."  
  
"A task? What sort of task? And why?"  
  
"For your spiritual betterment," she says.   
  
"I see." He sounds suitably contrite. "Alright, I am ready. What would you have me do?"  
  
"The next time the High Priestess is on the roster for the confessional," she says, "I charge you to once again give voice to these fantasies that you find so distracting."  
  
"To her?" Khadgar sounds uncertain, almost timid. "I don't think I can. How would I be able to look her in the eye knowing that I had said such things?"  
  
"Perhaps you underestimate her," the High Priestess says. "However, if you are fearful that she will recognize your voice, go beforehand to Brother Alexis and ask for the elixir made of Arathi herbs. It will make you sound utterly other."  
  
"Is that so?" Khadgar says slowly. "That is very interesting."  
  
"Even your own mother would not recognize you," the High Priestess says, and then she intones the Blessing of the Light, and tells him to go in peace.  
  
# # #


End file.
